Blood and Steel

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘When you return to your homes tonight, look at your aged parents, your wives, and your children. It is for them you are fighting. If you fight with courage, if you are men, you will return to them tomorrow night. If you let fear unman you, if you turn your backs, then you will be cut down. Be under no illusion, there is no safety in flight. If you run, you will die, Carthage will fall, and the Moorish barbarians that follow Capelianus will rape and enslave your loved ones.’

  Not the right note on which to end.

  ‘But if you stand firm, remain in your ranks, victory will be yours. Our enemies do not want to fight. They are forced into the field by the cruel servant of a monstrous tyrant. Their hearts are not in it. Some of them have families here. When they see your resolve, your numbers, your ordered, silent ranks, they may not fight at all.’

  Now to finish.

  ‘If they do fight, it will be half-heartedly, under compulsion. They have nothing for which to risk their lives. You, by contrast, have everything. You fight for homes and families, for freedom. Justice is on our side. The gods are on our side. We will be victorious!’

  The recruits cheered.

  Before he rode away, Gordian took time to survey the whole scene, fearful there might be something that he had overlooked, something that might unhinge all his plans.

  The scouts were out of sight, some ten miles distant, watching the hills through which Capelianus would come. Similarly, the remainder of the cavalry were hidden by distance and a slight fold in the plain. Only a cloud of dust marked where the two hundred Horse Guards were teaching the three hundred levy horsemen how to keep together in the charge. Tomorrow, if Gordian’s stratagem was to work, they must charge as one.

  The rest of the army was close at hand, set out in the places they would occupy the next day. The line faced west, straddling the Mappalian Way. The left rested on the villa of Sextus, at their back were the aqueduct, tombs and town walls, and the fish ponds were some way off to the right. The villa was garrisoned by the newly raised 1st Legion Gordiana Pius Fidelis. Sabinianus had argued that these four hundred veterans and stationarii would be better employed stiffening part of the array in the open field. But Gordian had overruled him. It was vital the flanks of the army were as secure as could be achieved.

  Running from the villa towards the north was a solid phalanx of heavy infantry. On the left were three thousand levies. The centre consisted of two thousand regulars; the 1st Cohort Flavia Afrorum, the Cohort of the 3rd Legion Augusta, the Praetorians, and the 13th Urban Cohort. The right was held by the other three thousand levies equipped for hand-to-hand combat, and at the extremity of this wing stood the 15th Cohort Emesenorum. The latter had only arrived from Ammaedara this morning. They would be tired, but hopefully by the next morning less so than Capelianus’ men. The right was the position of honour, the most exposed place in the line. Of all the army, the 15th Cohort had seen action most recently. Not a pitched battle, but the previous autumn they had been deployed chasing bandits back into the mountains.

  In front of the close-order troops Gordian had had a broad swathe of pits dug. At the bottom of each was a sharpened stake. Beyond were two thousand more levies armed with bows and slings. After the opening of the battle, when they had discharged their missiles, they were to move back through the pits and the heavily armed troops. In open order, and knowing where the traps lay, with luck most should negotiate the pits. They were to retire through the regular troops in the centre. The recruits in the main battle line were not yet experienced enough to open their ranks to let others pass through. Rather than close up again, they were more likely to be swept away in a general rush to the rear and the illusory safety of the town.

  Gordian looked again at the open ground to the right of his line, at the walls and buildings of the fish ponds beyond. The next day everything would depend on what happened there. Finally, he was satisfied that he had done all he could. The light was beginning to fade, and, at the head of his staff, he turned his horse’s head for home.

  The levies were full of enthusiasm. Only those who had not stood close to the steel ever welcomed the onset of battle. Their eagerness would not last. They were Africans, and the hot climate thinned their blood, made them reluctant to see it shed. The nature of all Africans inclined to cowardice. And they were from the city. Every military man knew country-men made better soldiers. Unlike the soft urban plebs, they were nurtured under the open sky in a life of hard work, enduring the weather, careless of comfort, unacquainted with bath houses, ignorant of luxury, simple-souled, content with but a little, their limbs toughened to withstand every kind of toil, digging entrenchments, bearing a burden; patient endurance was in their souls.

  Yet he had recruited men of the right age, neither beardless adolescents, not bent old men, and the correct physique, clean-limbed, almost every one of them approaching six foot tall. Care had been taken to draw them from the better occupations. No pastry cooks or pimps: until a few days ago they had been masons, wainwrights, butchers, and huntsmen, except, of course, for the four hundred or so gladiators distributed along the front rank. Whatever the shortfall among the latter in the virtues instilled by freedom, it should be compensated by their skill at arms. All in all, if the levies stood up to the first clash, they should buy enough time for Gordian’s ambush to win the battle.

  At the grave of Serenus Sammonicus, he reined in to pay his respects. The monument to his old tutor was not finished. The fresh white marble was uncarved, the niche not yet tenanted by his statue. Gordian hoped he would live to see it completed. This was not the moment to dwell on death. He moved on. We will not go down to the house of death, not yet, not until our day arrives.

  His father was waiting in the Palace. They were dining in the room called the Delphix. It was not a large party, apart from the two Emperors, just the high-ranking officers: Sabinianus, Mauricius, the Praetorian Prefect Vocula, the four commanders of the Cohorts, and the two young tribunes Pedius and Geminius. The tribunes deserved their places, although nine was the lucky number for a dinner.

  Servants brought in the first plates; snails fattened on emmer meal and grape syrup, anchovies fried with sea-anemone tentacles, a relish of fish sauce, warm bread, and a salad of rocket and pepper. Gordian was relieved there was nothing unpropitious, no lentils, lettuce or beans, not even eggs, nothing pertaining to the dead. In times of tension, the superstitious could read omens in anything. As they crossed the Euphrates, the legions of Crassus had been issued with lentils and salt, the symbols of mourning. They had marched to Carrhae expecting to die.

  The wine flowed – Caecuban and Falernian – and the talk was animated, even febrile. Gordian noted his father seldom joined the conversation. Towards the end of the main course, he moved across to his couch.

  ‘Father, you are not still concerned about the prodigy?’ He spoke quietly, although there was little danger of being overheard by the other now raucous guests. ‘Given the number of animals an Emperor sacrifices, sooner or later one will give birth during the ceremony. It is natural, signifies nothing.’

  His father touched his hand affectionately. ‘The soothsayers interpretation was although I would die, my son would be Emperor. And they predicted that, like the new-born animal, you would be gentle and innocent, subject to treachery.’

  In deference to his father’s feelings, Gordian did not point out that at the time of the prodigy, he had already been proclaimed Emperor, and that as a mature man his nature was well known. He sought to lighten the mood. ‘At least, Father, tomorrow we do not face death by drowning.’

  His father squeezed his hand. ‘Not all men share your Epicureanism. My belief is that the gods exist, that they care for mankind, and send us signs of the future, hard though these are to grasp correctly. There are many astrologers in Carthage. I summoned another, a learned man. He demonstrated how the constellations at your birth prove that you will be both son and father of an Emperor. You have no child, so it follows that you will live through tomorrow. Ha
ving no desire to outlive you, it reassures me. Now, I am tired, and will go to my chamber, leaving you younger men to your dessert.’

  It was a warm spring night, the curtains drawn back, and the windows open to catch the breeze. Sometime later, towards midnight, Gordian saw lights twinkling in the distance. He got up, and went over to see better. Campfires on the hills. Capelianus had come.

  Drawing near the window, he heard faint music, shouts and cries from an unseen street, like a Bacchic throng.

  Sabinianus was beside him. ‘A troop of revellers, their course seems to lie through the city toward the Mappalian Way.’

  ‘A good sign.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Come, Sabinianus, let us drink.’

  ‘It is late. I will go to my bed. You should take your rest.’

  ‘Nonsense, let us drown consideration.’

  ‘Brother, tomorrow is the day.’

  ‘And I hope well of it, expect victory.’

  Sabinianus took his arm. ‘If it goes otherwise, remember I have a fast boat ready for you, fully crewed, lying off the mole of the outer harbour. Hail them with the password Safety.’ He looked as if he had more to say, but did not.

  ‘Salus,’ Gordian repeated.

  They embraced, kissed, and Sabinianus left.

  Gordian turned to his remaining officers, now sitting quietly watching. ‘Come, brothers, let us burn the night with torches. Fill your cups, let us toast tomorrow. Let me not die without a struggle, inglorious, but do some big thing first, that men to come shall know of it.’

  Chapter 45

  Africa

  The Hills outside Carthage,

  Nine Days after the Ides of March, AD238

  It was late, but Capelianus did not expect to sleep. Tomorrow was the day.

  The men would be tired. The march had been along good roads, but it had been gruelling. Capelianus had driven them hard; from Lambaesis east to Thamugadi and Theveste, then north-east through Ammaedara – where the 15th Cohort had just escaped him – and Thugga, before swinging further north to approach Carthage through the hills. As they camped, the lights of the city had been laid out below them. It would do the men good to see the scale of the plunder that awaited.

  In the morning, the troops might be footsore, but Capelianus had no doubt that they would be victorious. Stripping Lambaesis had produced almost two thousand legionaries. The auxiliaries stationed in or near the base had been called in: the 1st Ala of Pannonians, and seven Cohorts, the 1st Flavian, 1st Syrian archers, 2nd Spanish, 2nd Moors, 2nd Thracians, 6th Commagenes, and 7th Lusitanians. In all he had raised six thousand infantry, and five hundred cavalry. To these he had added two thousand irregular Moorish horsemen. Admittedly more than one in ten had not completed the march. In a way Capelianus was pleased. The weak had been weeded out. Those that remained were tough, the Moorish cavalry savage, and the regulars veterans.

  Those they would face were contemptible. A mob from the amphitheatre and circus. Used to sitting on soft cushions, watching others exert themselves or die, perhaps throwing the occasional stone when the spectacles did not amuse them. They were supported by a handful of auxiliaries, a few from the Urban Cohorts – men better at bullying stevedores than fighting – and a detachment from the 3rd Augusta itself. The latter had already mutinied once, and it was unlikely that they would stand against their comrades when it came to battle. When his men came close, the scant number of real soldiers who followed the Gordiani would not be able to stop the Carthaginian plebs pissing themselves, and running for the city.

  The troops were only one reason to be confident. Capelianus was bred to command in war. For four years he had campaigned in the wilds of the desert and the harshest of mountains against the most bloodthirsty of tribes. There had been no defeats. The barbarians had learnt to fear his name. Tomorrow the Gordiani would learn that same hard lesson. The father was an old goat, so infirm he could no longer sit a horse or stand for more than half an hour. The son had massacred a couple of villages of peasants, and had the hubris to compare himself to Alexander and Hannibal. His mind addled and constitution ruined by drink, it was said he haunted the backstreets of the city, searching out magicians and other charlatans, anyone whose potions and strange rites might promise to restore his undermined virility.

  Capelianus knew justice and the gods were on his side. He had kept to his sacramentum, and his men had returned to their military oath. The Gordiani, and all who followed them, had broken the most sacred of promises. Capelianus fought for the lawful Emperor, the Gordiani for their own vanity and advantage. Already the gods had shown their displeasure. At the outset of their revolt, when the old satyr was sacrificing the victim had given birth. A hideous prodigy, made all the worse by the blood that had splashed the old man’s toga. And the astrologers read disaster in their stars. The captive Arrian, well goaded by the pincers and the hooks, had admitted everything. The heavens foretold the Gordiani would die by drowning. It amused Capelianus to think how he would fulfil the will of the gods when the Gordiani were in his power.

  Victory was assured. There was no need for elaborate plans, no need to fear some cunning stratagem. Line the troops up, and set them on the enemy. The soldiers and Moors would be eager to be unleashed. Capelianus had promised them three days of licence in Carthage, three days of unrestrained rape and pillage. Capelianus knew what motivated men; lust and greed.

  Outside the tent, from somewhere in the camp, came the sounds of music and laughter. Discipline was not what it had been in the past. If the revelry did not soon cease, Capelianus would get up and have the perpetrators arrested. In the morning, one or two salutary executions might concentrate the minds of the men on the task in hand.

  Capelianus shifted on his camp bed. Sleep would continue to elude him. The victory won, what rewards might he expect? It was true that Maximinus was less known for generosity than punishment. Every Roman Senator had read the Agricola of Tacitus. Its message was not hard to grasp. A suspicious Emperor mistrusted and feared too great a military triumph won by a subordinate, no matter how loyal that general. For all his virtue, old Agricola had been lucky to be sent into retirement, not to the block of the headsman.

  The Senate had declared against Maximinus. What would the Senators do when the Gordiani were dead? The vengeance of the Thracian would be terrible. To have any hopes beyond ruin, exile and death, beyond the destruction of their families, the Senators must find another candidate. Decius in Spain was wedded to Maximinus, the governors along the Rhine and Danube said to be equally committed. The Senate must look to the East then, or, just possibly to Africa? Ambition flickered in Capelianus’ thoughts. He had been born to win great victories, to humble the powerful, perhaps spare the weak, to sit in judgement on the fate of peoples, cities and continents: Imperator Capelianus Augustus Pius Felix.

  Yet to ascend the throne of the Caesars was to share the fate of Damocles, to sit under a sword suspended by a thread. Better someone else wore the purple. Capelianus’ grandfather had been one friend among many of Antoninus Pius. Better by far to be the one man on whom the Emperor relied, to be the power behind the throne. A malleable man of noble ancestry would have to be found. If things did not go well, his confidant could change sides, but an Emperor must die. Such things might lie in the future, but now Capelianus needed to rest. Tomorrow was the day.

  He must have slept. One of the guards was calling from behind the hangings. Gods below, it was early, not yet cock crow, but early. Capelianus swung his legs off the bed, sat up.

  ‘Enter.’

  The guard put his head around the curtain. ‘A deserter, Sir, high ranking.’

  ‘Have you searched him?’

  ‘Yes Sir, we have taken his weapons.’

  ‘Bring him in, but watch him.’

  The deserter was a tall man, wearing a tunic and travelling cloak. He had an oddly supercilious air, for a man in custody. He looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Health and gr
eat joy.’

  ‘Do not try my patience.’

  ‘I had hoped for a warmer welcome.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Sabinianus, Legate to the Proconsul of Africa.’

  Capelianus could not help himself jumping up from the bed, peering into the face of the man. There was no doubt, it was him; the other of the Cercopes, here in his tent.

  ‘A drink would be hospitable.’

  Capelianus backed away, picked up his sword. The bone hilt was reassuring in his fist.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Sabinianus smiled. ‘Have no fear, I am not an assassin. I have never desired to die in a doomed cause. So I have come to renew my oath to our sacred Emperor Maximinus.’

  Capelianus felt a surge of disgust. The world had fallen so low.

  ‘And you think I will welcome you?’

  ‘Perhaps not, but as the saying goes, love the treachery, hate the traitor.’

  ‘What proof can you offer of your change of heart?’

  ‘What proof do you want?’

  Capelianus considered.

  The guards watched the deserter.

  Sabinianus yawned. If anything he looked bored.

  ‘Come with me,’ Capelianus said.

  It was still dark.

  The big game cart was parked near the general’s pavilion. The feral reek grew stronger as they approached.

  ‘Unbar the gate.’

  When they did so, there was the stench of excrement.

  ‘Bring the torches closer.’ Capelianus was beginning to enjoy this, delighting in his own ingenuity. ‘Take a good look.’

  The guttering light revealed a man loaded with chains, lying in his own filth.

  ‘Say Health and great joy to your friend Arrian.’

  The figure in the cart struggled into a sitting position. His fingernails were gone, his eye sockets empty. His blind, crusted face turned towards the men.